


la fuga

by boom_slap



Series: symphonies and other things [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Late Night Conversations, M/M, One Shot, Post-Canon, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24518575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: "the tension suddenly disappears, making way for terrible exhaustion of days spent inside the Bank, of weeks spent in the monastery, of months spent alone and years spentnext to."post-Bank heist
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Helsinki | Mirko Dragic/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote & Professor | Sergio Marquina
Series: symphonies and other things [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774996
Comments: 16
Kudos: 74





	la fuga

**Author's Note:**

> me?? writing Helermo?? it's more likely than you think

There are times and places where words are not needed.

When they finally reach Sergio after escaping from the Bank, when the adrenaline drops and fatigue almost brings them to their knees, Martín expects to be shot on the spot. 

After all, Sergio clearly stated that Martín was a traitor-

( _which he was, because he lost control, because he let the others fuck up the plan, because he let Helsinki fuck him, because he let Gandia kill Nairobi, because he’s a piece of garbage_ )

\- and Sergio promised he would deal punishment.

What a way to go that would be. To stand before lovely, smart, wonderful Sergio, the only thing left of Andrés in the bitter, broken world. To look him in the eyes and feel the cold barrel of a gun against his forehead; the only thing Martín wants to feel, really. He craves punishment as if it were the sweetest prize. He doesn’t want chains; he wants a bullet to pierce through his skull and make everything go quiet.

He sees Sergio and all he knows is that he’s done, it’s finally over, there’s nothing more to say or do. Life is already seeping out of him, leaving only the pain in his bones and behind his eyes, every fiber of his body shaking as the tension suddenly disappears, making way for terrible exhaustion of days spent inside the Bank, of weeks spent in the monastery, of months spent alone and years spent _next to_.

( _never together with, only next to_ )

Sergio looks determined when he moves towards him and Martín would smile if he weren’t so tired, but he won’t be anymore. He’s going to finally know peace.

Sergio is still determined in the way he wraps his arms around him, pulling him to his chest because he’s ridiculously tall like that.

He probably means to hold Martín and he doesn’t know that he’s crushing him instead. It’s an overflow, it feels like drowning and suffocating, it’s the very opposite of mercy Martín was wishing for. He crumbles against him in seconds, cries and chokes, and whimpers: “ _Andrés_ ”, desperately trying to imagine _his_ arms and _his_ chest and _his_ scent; his very _breath_ , because to Martín, it was distinctive. He can’t fool himself, though; it’s Sergio, not Andrés.

For the third time in his life, he feels like the world just ended and he’s the sole, unwilling survivor.

  
  


There are times and places where words are not needed.

He cries when Helsinki fucks him that first night in Mexico, maybe because it’s the first time they’re face to face. It’s a start of something new and Martín doesn’t deserve it.

( _neither does he want it; he would rather be at the bottom of the ocean that separates them from Italy_ )

Just like he had said, he’s managed to train the man very well; he doesn’t have to tell him to ignore his tears. It’s enough to dig his nails into Helsinki’s arms, to arch his back and press his heels into the soft backside, to squeeze his sides with shaking legs.

He covers his eyes with his arm, because he doesn’t want to see the pity painted all over Helsinki’s face, and sobs.

Afterwards, he doesn’t let Helsinki hold him. He moves away instead, sits up with his knees tucked under his chin and he’s more nauseous than ever before when some of the come he just got his ass filled with drips down onto the sheets.

There is a warm, big hand on his back and he flinches away, because this is not what he was made for.

( _if he were made for love, he would have been loved before, no?_ )

Helsinki takes his hand away. He waits a few minutes and when Martín stops sniffling, he brings him a glass of water.

He’s finding ways to care for him discreetly and Martín knows he’s going to hurt him again, and again, and again.

He hates himself for it, because he doesn’t hate Helsinki and Helsinki deserves better. Still, he lets him stay because he’s a piece of shit and he has nothing and nobody else.

  
  


There are times and places where words are not needed.

Martín stumbles into the apartment with his nose bleeding from snorting cocaine and his lips and knuckles bleeding from giving and receiving punches.

He shivers because the quiet in unnerving; because the AC is on and the cold air hits his burning skin. He’s shaky and feverish and utterly broken.

( _a punch still feels better than a caress; he asked for it because he insulted the man; he asked for it because he deserved it, and he deserves more_ )

He tries not to make any noise, because he doesn’t want to wake Helsinki. Helsinki deserves to sleep peacefully and he deserves better than Martín.

Of course, he fucks that up as well. He’s high and drunk enough to drop the glass of water he’s trying to drink and it crashes loudly against the tiles in the kitchen.

Helsinki looks sleepy and not at all surprised, but pain and worry are evident on his face as he pulls Martín away from the broken glass.

( _he would bleed himself dry to make it go away; so why doesn’t he?_ )

The wet cloth feels soothing against his face and he’s trying to pull away like a child who fears an antiseptic.

Helsinki presses it to the nape of his neck and leans in, running his calloused thumb under Martín’s nostrils, where scarlet mixes with white.

He gets up and Martín drops to his knees, puts his hands on the other man’s hips, fingers closing around the fabric of his boxer shorts. He looks up at him, face bloodied, eyes tearful and burning. He opens his mouth and wets the split bottom lip with his tongue; an _invitation_.

Helsinki is angry, now; that happens very rarely. His mouth curls in something very close to disgust as he steps back.

Martín sits back on his heels and tries to laugh; the sound is raspy and pathetic.

There are times and places where words are not needed.

They are sitting on the couch, each on his own side, but Mirko pulls his bare, cold feet onto his lap and massages them gently with big, warm hands.

( _it’s the most intimate thing that’s ever happened to him)_

Martín doesn’t pull away and neither does he move closer. He stares off into space, wondering if loving Mirko means he hates Andrés now. The pain in his chest is dull, but that doesn’t mean it’s not overwhelming.

( _if he was a traitor before, what does it make him now?_ )

He could reach for a blanket, but he doesn’t.

  
  
  


Some words can only be uttered far too late, in the middle of the night, while a storm is raging outside.

“Why do you never let me kiss you?” Mirko asks. They’re lying on their sides, facing each other. The clothes are warm and soft and so are the covers, but Martín still shivers. He blinks but the room doesn’t get less blurry - he doesn’t know if it’s because of the faint, red and orange lightning from a single lamp on the nightstand, or if it’s his fucked-up sight.

Speaking feels like pulling thorns out of his throat.

“He kissed me goodbye.”

Mirko lets out a small breath he must’ve been holding. Martín lowers his gaze because he expects to see disappointment and pain. When Mirko speaks, his voice is soft and gentle.

“What was he like?”

Martín looks up, stares with wide eyes and sees only curiosity.

“You, first,” he says, defensive still. “What was Berlín like?”

“Strange,” Mirko frowns slightly and moves his hand so that it almost touches Martín’s. “Difficult. A good leader.”

“Andrés,” Martín whispers, “was wonderful. Beautiful. A good friend.”

“A lover?”

“No. I mean- yes. He loved many things. Just not-,” he pauses, closes his eyes, “not me. I was impossible to love.”

“He kissed you.”

“Yes. Then, he left.”

Saying it eases the pain, instead of making it worse. Martín doesn’t understand what’s happening. Maybe it’s because somehow, Mirko always makes everything simple.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t say?”

Martín is frowning now, too.

“He said it was out of love,” he mutters and some old bitterness creeps up into his mouth and lingers on his tongue.

“You don’t believe it.”

“Of course I don’t.”

Mirko is quiet for a moment.

“If he was a good friend,” he says, finally, slow and careful, “then why would he lie to you?”

Martín blinks. The weight of the implication is almost impossible to bear, but he finds his exhausted, naive mind mulling it over. Why _would_ Andrés lie? He’s always been honest. Brutally so. Martín would never put it past him to say: _I don’t love you_ and _I don’t want you_ and _you disgust me_. But he didn’t. He said _I love you_ and _we’re soulmates_ and _heal your wounds._

_Heal your wounds._

Andrés’ voice echoes in his head and his face appears before his eyes, blurred with tears. He wants to blink them away and look at Mirko; he owes him that.

( _he wants to see Andrés; he never wants to not see him_ )

“I’m not looking to take him away from you,” Mirko says and Martín draws a shaky breath. He doesn’t understand.

“I’m not looking to take anything away from you, ” the tone is as gentle as the hand wiping away his tears. Martín swallows a sob and moves an inch closer. Mirko is warm and real, and right there with him.

“Promise?” he asks quietly and there’s a plea in his voice. He had always been faithful.

“I promise,” Mirko says. His hand moves to the back of Martín’s head, mirroring the comforting gesture from the Bank. They’re already breathing the same air but Mirko waits until Martín nods and a tear drops from the side of his nose.

Mirko kisses him and it’s as gentle as the rest of him, and his lips are slightly chapped, and the kiss is adoring and giving, not demanding, and it doesn’t make him forget Andrés.

Martín gives back; he kisses back and then shifts to wrap his arms around Mirko’s neck, clinging to him like he’s the only thing saving him from drowning.

( _he is and breathing finally doesn’t feel like suffocating anymore_ )


End file.
